


Eriond: be the Rogue of Hope

by OtherCat



Category: Belgariad/Malloreon Series - David & Leigh Eddings, Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Crossover, Multi, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-10 00:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12899832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherCat/pseuds/OtherCat
Summary: In which a young God hears a Vast Expletive (within which is encoded an entire philosophy) and decides to steal himself a Signless Sufferer.





	1. Don’t turn your back on the body

**== >Eriond: steal yourself a Signless Sufferer**

Watching was a nightmare. The one You’ve come for, the one whose cry woke You in the night dies hard, burning in the sunlight, burning from the manacles chaining him to the stone pillar. You watch him die when every instinct is screaming for You to rescue him, to put out the fires and ensure they can never be lit again. 

(You have never felt so angry, or so helpless.) 

He’s shot, and his final cry is the Word that traveled over an unimaginable distance until it reached Your ears. It was a cry full of frustration and grief, a cry that shook You in a way that reminded You of Your poor fallen brother. The Word had been a furious expletive, yet You had known that encoded within that cry was a great and powerful thesis of peace and cooperation. 

Despite knowing that the Word was the death cry of the one who spoke it, You were determined to somehow rescue him. The Word had not been a cry for help, and did not demand an answer, You felt compelled to answer it, to see the one who had shouted it to what he had thought was an uncaring universe. 

You conferred with Your Father, and listened to the silent voice of Your Mother. (The former would have been closer to arguing, the latter was more like a waking dream. Both were worried at the feat You were attempting, but in the end, They gave way.) The voice of the Singular Destiny doesn’t disapprove, but warns You to take care, grants You little hints and riddles.  

You learn during Your journey that there is something out there that creates universes, put in place by some other Being or Beings. (You suspect this is just one of many ways Universes are born. Your Parents as far as You know created Themselves.) It presents Itself as a game, the way the Two Destinies played a Game with each other. The Players of the Game are the Children of the Game, created to play, and hopefully in the playing, create a new Universe. 

The Universe you find is a universe created by the game, though it is actually a tangled double binary of Universes, at the middle of which is a Demon. Not a Demon like the ones You are familiar with, but a Demon just the same. The Demon seeks to perpetuate Himself through a vast loop of Destiny, forever creating, forever destroying and forever becoming. The Demon has infected this particular branch of the universe-creating game, and might infect Yours if You’re not careful.  He is aided by slaves and pawns and a number of objects. Being outside the universe, You have time to learn as much as You need to. 

You have no choice but to learn. Though you want to destroy the Demon, the Demon is not for You to slay. You are informed of this by a strange and terrible being, a woman with curling ram’s horns and white fire for eyes. She is bitter and angry and utterly foul-mouthed but she answers your questions and gives you advice. She knows you in some strange way that isn’t strange at all, because she already knows what you’re going to do, because you’ve done it already and her being there is simply closing a loop. 

Your moment is the moment they turn their back on the body. The Empress and her retinue leave, the crowd is dispersed. All that’s left is the one you came for. You insert yourself in that moment. (There are flickering words flaring across your mind: Rogue of Hope.) The sun is bright and terrible, and the still body hangs stiffening from the pillar. It’s a work of a moment’s thought to remove the cuffs, and catch the body. 

The woman appears, dressed in green, eyes flickering with a thousand colors. In her hands are slim wands that crackle with deadly energies. She has been sent here to investigate, as You were warned by her furthest iteration. “What are you doing?” she asks. 

“You don’t need him anymore, do you?” You ask in return. You’re speaking, and your languages are completely different with different concepts, but You Both understand each other. 

“He’s played his part,” she says indifferently, though she doesn’t lower the crackling wands. “But you are an unknown. Who are you?” 

“No one you need to worry about, Damara,” You tell her. 

She starts with surprise. “How do you know that name?” 

“You told me it,” You tell her, and she frowns, her chin tucked in defensively. “A further iteration did, anyway. She told me to tell you, ‘we weren’t given a name, but that’s our name. Damara Megido.’” 

“No,” she says, suddenly both angry and afraid. A whip of light is aimed toward you. You send it back and she dodges. 

“Yes,” you say in return, and hold her in place with an extension of Your Will. 

She curses furiously at You, angry and frightened now. “It’s all right Damara,” You tell her gently, kindly as You know how. It’s easy for you to soothe people, to reassure them because you know them and love them. You don’t know Damara beyond what she told You, but You can sense that her life has been terrible beyond measure in the service of her Master. 

You want only to reassure her, to gentle her, but she flinches as if the sound of her name or the sympathy you’re sending her is painful. “No,” she says again. “It’s never been all right. It will _never_ be all right. I’ll make sure of that. _Don’t fucking look at me like that._ _You’re not my moirail.”_

“I know Damara, I’m sorry,” you tell her. The word “moirail” has a strange and wonderful meaning, strange and beautiful for such a harsh people. (All languages have such beautiful words, even Old Angarak, but this one was especially lovely since it was a word that meant a deep and protective love that subdues rage and madness.) “Everything will be clear to you, many years from now, when you become your furthest iteration. For right now though, I need you to forget about Me, and remember what I tell you.”  

You tell her what she needs to remember. You don’t push and don’t even have to exert Your Will. There is a part of her, a very small part of her capable of defiance toward her Master. A part of her is seeking escape, and that part of her overwhelms the obedience that had been beaten into her. It is a tiny burning spark that You try to strengthen. When she no longer sees You, when her eyes slide over You as if You aren’t there, You release her. She sways on her feet for a moment, and then disappears in a crackle of green light. 

You take the body. The soul hasn’t gone very far. (Souls in this universe don’t seem to travel or move the way souls in Your universe do. You think it’s because of the essentially broken nature of it, due to the Demon.) It’s still raging, still full of despair. You gather it up, calming it into something not quite like sleep. and shift out of the moment, out of the universe. (Before You do, You see a boy dressed in blue, trousers, tunic and a long-tailed hood. He stares at You in surprise. You can’t help but wink at him in return.) 

The journey is both long and not long at all. The spirit of Damara follows You at least part of the way. You would invite her further still, but she tilts her head in a gesture You’ve come to realize means no. “Not yet,” she says, and looks at the body, and at the soul. “Not while the Green Sun burns, and I am not there yet.” 

“If that’s what you want,” You tell her gently. 

She frowns at You. “You are still not my moirail,” she tells You. 

You apologize. She snorts, and disappears in a flicker of shadow, and the after image of a clockwork wheel. **  
**

**== >Signless: wake up**

The first things you’re aware of is the mattress beneath you and the pillow. One stuffed with dried grass, the other with avian down. You’re covered by blankets, and the room is dark and comforting, the only light a candle shielded by a glass cylinder. You burrow deeper under the blankets at first, and don’t worry very much about the strangeness of the bedding materials. There’s a strange buzzing in your horns, a bit like feeling Psii’s psionics, but not quite. You’re awake, but still so tired, you could drift right back to sleep. 

You almost _do_ drift back to sleep, but then you remember. 

You remember burning, the smell of your own flesh. You remember your family in chains, your mother, Mituna, Meulin. You remember screams, you remember the Empress. You remember the deaths of your followers, each one more horrible than the last. You remember screaming, though you don’t remember what you said. You remember the arrow, and sit up fast. 

This is a mistake. The dull pain you’re feeling sharpens for a moment; you gasp, hand over the wound. You’re wearing some kind of long, light tunic of some kind of plant fiber, with sleeves that go down to your elbows. It’s white with multicolor embroidery and shell buttons. Beneath the cloth you can feel a bandage wrapping your torso. Your wrists are also bandaged. 

Now that you’re sitting up, you look around cautiously. 

The room has no windows, and has the feel of being underground. In the light of the little candle lamp, the walls are closely fit stone and the floor is wood. The platform you’re sleeping on is narrow but fairly comfortable, just big enough for you to lie flat on your back, and just wide enough to fit you. (It makes you think a little of a concupiscent couch, but the materials are all wrong and there’s no indentation toward the middle.) In addition to the bed is an armoire, a chest of drawers, a writing desk and a small book case stuffed with paper books and oblongs you think might be…scroll cases? (Scroll cases, like something from one of Dis’ favorite historical romances!) 

The thought almost makes you smile, but not for very long. You can’t think of Dis without remembering her face. She had been trying so hard to be strong, to analyze what she was seeing so she could record it later, (if there was a later) but you had seen she was on the edge of losing it. You had shouted her name and the highbloods had laughed, thinking you were calling to her for help. You had wanted her to _stop looking_ , but she hadn’t. She wouldn’t look away. (None of them would, and not because they were being forced to watch your death.) Your eyes start to tear up, and you draw a hard, shaky breath. 

There’s no sign of technology in the room. That’s the first thing that draws your attention away from grief. Even when you were living in caves as a child with your mother, there had been technology. You and your mother had husktops, an inflatable mattress, electric lamps, a camp stove. Candles were for ambience, not light sources. This was a very strange afterlife. 

There are footsteps outside the door, which opens. An alien, almost trollish except for its disturbing lack of horns and the color of its skin and eyes peers into the room. It sees you and speaks in a low, musical voice. The buzzing in your horns, which you had almost forgotten about becomes a bit more intense, though not painfully so, and you hear, _“My daughter notes you are awake, and greets you,”_ in your head. 

“Hello,” you say, to both the mysterious (and apparently very intelligent and very telepathic) lusus and its alien daughter. “Yes, I’m awake now. I. Thank you, but where am I?” How you were still alive was also a question. 

The lusus seems to translate this to the alien, who spoke in its own language. The lusus translates. _“You are in Maragor, this is my Daughter Taiba and this is her home. The room belongs to one of her sons who is away in Ulgo to study. My Brother Eriond brought you here.”_ The lusus seems both put out and amused by this last detail. 

“I see,” you say. You saw nothing. The lack of visibility was absolutely astounding. All was a void unpenetrated by a single point of comprehension. The terms that you almost understand swim quickly by, impossible to catch. 

The alien speaks again, and again, the lusus translates. _“Taiba asks if you are hungry.”  
_

Your digestion bladder informs you that yes, it is empty and would prefer to remedy this as soon as possible. At a loss for the moment, you indicate “yes,” though you aren’t sure if you’d be able to consume alien food. “Thank you,” you say, and clamp down on any nervous requests. Making demands of a host--or captor--right away was sometimes seen as rude. You don’t know how long you’ve been here recuperating from what turns out wasn’t your death, but they haven’t poisoned you yet. Perhaps the aliens understood enough about troll biology to not accidentally kill you. 

The alien shows you flat teeth in a smile and retreats from the room, leaving it slightly ajar. It’s either reassurance that you’re not a prisoner or an invitation to explore. Then again, it might be neither of those things. 

_“You are My Brother’s Guest,”_ the lusus murmurs, and finally makes an appearance. It appears to be the same kind of alien as the “daughter,” Taiba. It was dressed in kilt and a long sleeved tunic. It wore leather sandals that were laced to its knees. It’s hair was dark and long and tied back in a simple braid, and looked a great deal like Taiba, though much taller. Despite the similarity to its “daughter” it wasn’t the same kind of alien at all. It was something other, something more spirit than flesh and bone. “He heard your voice and was moved to seek you out and give aid where he could.” 

You press your hand to your wound. “He was a little late,” you say dryly. 

The being smiled _. “He would have taken you before the arrow even reached you, but he was warned against it,”_ the lusus says. _“He could do nothing that interfered with the causality bound in the creation and destruction of your Universe.”_

Your hands clench into fists at that. Everything you worked for, everything you had said and done hadn’t changed anything. All you had done was create the circumstances that would enable your Descendant to play the Game. What you had wanted was to create a world where your Descendant wouldn’t have to hide. You wanted to create a world where the hemospectrum was a circle instead of a hierarchy, you wanted equality for everyone. “What does he want with me?” You ask. 

_“From what I understand, he wants your help.”_

“My help?” you ask. What kind of help could you give a being allegedly capable of bringing you back to life? Or who was apparently able to steal you out from under the Demoness’ sniffnode. 

The being nods its head, and you understand that it’s indicating an affirmative. _“I will let Him explain,”_ the lusus says. _“For now, eat and rest.”_

You dip your head in acknowledgement, confused but curious. “I’ll do that then.”


	2. A few notes on being quest adjacent

**== >Taiba: prepare a meal for your guest**

It would have to be something simple. You weren’t quite sure what he’d be able to eat. (The only reason you knew he was even “he” was because Eriond had said so. “He” was only superficially like a human, the closer you looked the more differences become apparent. There was nothing about “him” that seemed male or female to you.) He’s strange, and a monster, but not mad the way the monsters in Ulgo are. (When you were living in the caves, you had a feeling Ulgo were the mad ones, given the proprietary concern and bizarre affection they had for the creatures who drove their ancestors underground when the world was cracked.) 

You heat up some broth, and poach four eggs in it. When they’re done, you ladle them into a bowl, and set the bowl on a tray. You cut a few slices of bread, and add them to the tray, along with a small bowl of honey. 

You carry this to Elgin’s bedroom, where your guest is staying. You knock before entering the room, and hear something that might be an acknowledgement. The guest is awake and sitting upright with one of Elgin’s books in his lap. He had been studying the illuminations, you thought. “Taiba,” the guest says. He closes the book (his fingers marking his place) and makes a gesture as if he wants to return it. 

“I don’t mind if you look at it,” you say, though you know he doesn’t understand you. You set the tray down on his lap. “Breakfast,” you tell him. 

The guest smiles, and says something that might have been some variety of “thank you.” He taps his chest and says something, and then something else in no language you’ve ever heard. 

_“His name is ‘Signless,’”_ Mara’s voice says softly in your mind. _“He also thanks you for the food.”_ Signless spoke further. “He also asks if you would assist him in learning the language.” 

“Ask him if he’d be willing to teach me his language,” you say. You give “Signless” words in the language that everyone in the world seems to use, and he gives you words in his language. You’re extremely curious about the name, but have no way to really question him. Some of the words are hard to pronounce, but Signless is patient, and it isn’t hard for you to patient as well. You name the food items, the utensils, as many items as Signless indicates, all through breaking his fast, and sometime after. 

Relg makes an appearance an hour later, standing in the doorway, watching you with a little smile on his face. “I see he’s awake,” Relg says quietly. 

You nod. “Relg, this is ‘Signless,’” you say, and watch the curious tilt of your husband’s head. _“Signless,”_ you say in an approximation of the name you heard. “This is my husband Relg.” 

Relg nods at your guest. “Hello Mister Signless,” Relg says. “You’re welcome to stay here and recover.” 

Signless speaks, and Mara translates this. _“He says that he thanks Taiba and you for the hospitality,”_ Mara says so you both can hear. Mara chuckles softly. _“He also says he hopes that Eriond has not volunteered you against your consent.”  
_

“Eriond’s a very good boy,” you say, over Relg’s stunned and earnest “will of the gods of course he’s welcome,” speech. The speech sputters into Relg’s “I can’t believe you said that,” look and horrified silence. (It’s nice that you still haven’t lost your touch.) “He wouldn’t have ordered us,” you say. You can sense Mara translating. “The condition you were in, we never would have said no,” you add. 

_“He thanks you for your kindness,”_ Mara translates. _“Also, he won’t admit it, but he’s very tired.”_

“Tell him we’ll leave him to rest, Father?” you ask as you gather up the empty tray. 

_“Of course my child,”_ Mara murmurs. 

You head out into the hallway, trailed by your husband. “Darling husband,” you say in Ulgo. “I know you’ll explode if you don’t shout about it, but wait until we’re on the verandah, you’ll frighten our guest.” 

“I’m not going to shout,” Relg says in Ulgo, amused and also a little exasperated. “I’m used to your ways and reasons, and know well how you love to make my heart stop.” 

You laugh at that, and leave the dishes for Ulma in the scullery. “Eriond _is_ a very good boy,” you say. 

Relg sighs at you. “He’s a God,” Relg says, lips twitching with his amusement. He’s trying not to laugh. He does have a sense of humor, you’ve learned. A very subtle one that is apparently amused by what he calls your “blunt spirituality and terrifying approach to philosophy and theological concepts.” 

“A very young one, one I remember having to look for his shoe in the middle of an army camp,” you point out. “Always the same shoe, and always just long enough for me to stop worrying about…whatever I was worrying about because I was too busy trying to find the damn thing.” 

Relg, smiles gently at you, obviously amused by the idea of your searches among the campfollowers’ tents. Ugh. At least you made female acquaintances that weren’t flighty noblewomen mooning over warrior-princes, flouncing like giddy mad things or having histrionics over their husbands. (The last you could almost sympathize with. You were sick with fear and worry for Relg and very little could distract you from it.) You’d met laundresses, seamstresses, tradeswomen, nurses and cooks. You had met prostitutes and soldiers’ women and wives from many nations and learned a great deal from the experience. (You still receive regular mail from many of the women who could read and write. A few of them had even settled in Maragor with you and Relg after the war.) And then there was Lady Polgara, who was kind, though in an indifferent, distant way that was almost as upsetting as the flighty noblewomen. 

“All right, a very young God,” Relg says. “But it seems strange.” He makes a frustrated little gesture. “The nature of his concern.” 

“It doesn’t seem strange to me,” you say. “ _You_ wouldn’t think to worry about something like that though.” 

Years and years ago he would have said something like, “no one should worry about what their God commands.” But that was years ago, and he’s learned a great deal since then, so he frowns thoughtfully instead. “He is not moved by blind trust in the Gods,” Relg says. “And he doesn’t presume that others would be.” 

“And takes care that his presence is welcome, and not a burden,” you say. “Though he’s also an idiot; where did he think he was going to go if we said yes, we were being forced to take him in?” 

**== >Signless: recover and learn the backstory of your hosts**

Within a few weeks you’re well enough to get around on a crutch thoughtfully provided by your hosts. You learn a great deal about them, and their little community. It’s a village of somewhere between two and three hundred adults and wigglers, many of them you learn, escaped slaves. Your hosts Taiba and Relg are the leaders of the community. They tell you of how they met, a story adjacent to a fantastical tale full of prophecy, sorcery and war, and how the village was founded. 

It’s a harrowing tale, full of personal grief and small triumphs. Some of it is in their language, but most of it is translated by Mara. Taiba was a slave rescued by a sorcerer-led band of questors, of which Relg had been a member. Taiba had been grieving over the death of her daughters, determined to somehow get revenge against the priests who had sacrificed them, only to be caught in a cave in. Relg, who had a psionic talent for phasing through rock had been sent to rescue her, which he’d been at first unwilling to do due to religious feelings related to purity and impurity. 

(Caught up in the story as you were, at learning this, you had glared balefully at Relg, much to the cackling glee of his matesprit. Apparently you are not the first to be outraged by this.) 

The story continues with the questors’ reckless flight to safety, pursued by soldiers and enemy priest-sorcerers. Taiba spoke of her confusion and fear, and her surprise that one of the sorcerers knew her language, a language only she and her mother had spoken. Relg spoke of his own confusion and how Taiba shattered his long held prejudices and assumptions about the world. They both talk about their slowly growing feelings for each other, and you are touched, though also a little confused. 

“It seems almost as if you would have been pitch,” you say thoughtfully. “Though I suppose it could have as easily been pale as red.” 

This causes some confusion to your hosts. “Pitch?” Taiba asks. “Red?” 

“I would have expected a romance based in rivalry and arguments, where each is challenged to change and improve,” you say. “‘Pitch’ or ‘kismesis,’ is what it’s called among my kind.” 

“And red, and pale?” Relg asks. 

“Red is matesprit, a love based in compassion and protective caring,” you explain. “Pale is moiraillegiance, which is romance based in kindness, advice and the calming of anger. There’s a fourth, called ‘Ash,’ or auspicticism, which is diverting or otherwise stopping two angry people who shouldn’t be kismesis because they’re terrible together from killing each other.” 

“Oh, that sounds more complicated than an Arendish romance,” Taiba says. “I don’t think we really have such fine distinctions.” 

You shrug. “Well, it’s very specific to my kind. Our society in many was depends on quadrants in order to form social ties. We tend to be solitary, except for our quadrants, and those who we interact with through our quadrants.” 

After the war against the “Dark God,” Relg and Taiba “married” and came to Maragor, the ancestral homeland of Taiba’s people. They built a home and began raising children with the assistance of friend acquired during the war and Relg’s people, the “Ulgo.” (The Ulgo were rather fascinating. They lived entirely underground and had become somewhat adapted to living in the darkness, which somewhat explained the construction of Taiba and Relg’s home, which was partially built into a hill.) 

You ask many questions, and learn a great deal about your hosts and this world. Relg and Taiba ask you questions in return, and you tell as much as you feel comfortable telling them. They are very kind, and don’t press you when you come to things you can’t speak about, but you do tell them about your family, and about your childhood. They are very curious about your descriptions of technology, (which they don’t assume to be magic) which may or may not disprove Troll Arthur C. Clark. 

As you get better and it’s easier to move around, you attempt to help with chores. You assist with dinner, help in the kitchen garden and ask lots of questions. Taiba and Relg have many children from adults to little wigglers, all of them curious and full of questions themselves. You quickly pick of the language, and bits of two other languages that Relg and Taiba’s family speak: Marag and Ulgo. (You’re a little curious about how there’s a mostly universal language, but the only scholars are “Toldnedran monks” who run a small school in the village, and Relg. Relg’s area of expertise is not the spread and development of language, and the monks who seem to have various areas of knowledge are still trying to wrap their heads around your existence after your one meeting with them.) 

Eriond is not around during this time. He went somewhere called “The Vale of Aldur,” and from there, went to Mishrak ac Thull. (Mara is not at all mysterious about Eriond’s doings. Apparently Eriond went to talk to Aldur about you. Your presence is apparently somewhat controversial. The trip to Mishrak ac Thull was apparently to rescue Grolims.) At your query, you learn that “Grolims” are a priestly caste, and Thulls violently hate them, apparently for very good, absolutely valid reasons. 

**== >Eriond: ride through the desert on a Horse with no name**

You’re being escorted by Thull soldiers back across the Mishrak ac Thull/Cthol Murgos border with would-be Grolim missionaries. The Grolim have all of their fingers and toes and haven’t had their tongues cut out, so this is a major victory. It took a lot of fast talking, and You think the Queen Mother is warming to You, so everything went well. 

You wait until the Thull have pulled the Grolim out of their saddles, cut their bonds and gags, and led the horses back across the border before You dismount from Horse. The Grolim drop to their knees, praising You and asking for mercy. Horse snorts and nuzzles at Your shoulder, sending You amused, flitting thoughts about scraggly desert asses. “Desert asses have more sense,” You tell Horse, making sure your voice is loud enough for the Grolim to hear. 

The Grolim cringe. A few of them start explaining, a few of them start begging for forgiveness. You pat Horse’s neck until they come to a more or less natural stop. The only one who hasn’t said a word is the single priestess, Tsubai. “You’re the only one I’m disappointed in,” You tell her. 

The Grolim relax, because Grolim, decades after Your brother’s death are _still_ dogs who have been beaten too much and immediately try to avoid blame by blaming others. You cut off any “it was her idea, I was led astray,” accusations with a brief exertion of will. Tsubai bows her head. “If it helps, Lord, I wasn’t attempting to proselytize, and I wasn’t caught until later.” 

She had been disguised as a wealthy Nadrak merchant’s daughter, working on a plan to bring Thullish midwives to Gar og Nadrak to teach Nadrak midwives and physicians. It was a good plan, and a worthwhile goal. Thull medical knowledge was a well-kept secret that needed to be shared. “Tsubai, you have _agents,_ ” You tell her. “Agents who are not _Grolim_. You almost ruined your own mission. Fortunately, the Queen Mother was willing to keep the project going, even if a Grolim was behind it.” 

“There was a difficult bit of negotiation,” Tsubai says. “In my arrogance, I thought I could manage it myself.” 

You sigh. “Tsubai, what am I going to do with you?” 

Tsubai gives You an impish look. “Forgive me?” 

“I’ll consider it,” You tell her, amused. “The reason I’m disappointed with her,” You tell the other Grolim, “Is that she shouldn’t have been caught in the first place.” You go ever and help Tsubai to her feet. “I’m not disappointed in you, because that would be like being angry that bees sting.” 

The two younger Grolim flinch. The three older Grolim sulk. 

“The Thull do not want Grolim in their country,” You tell them. “Urgit won’t back Grolims going into Mishrak ac Thull, Zakath won’t do it, the Nadrak hate you just a little less than the Thull do. That should be enough of a deterrent to going in yourselves.” 

“But how may we spread word of your glory, Master?” Rutegar, one of the older Grolim asks. 

“There are already those who speak of me in Mishrak ac Thull,” You say patiently. “They just aren’t Grolim.” 

“But we are Your priests,” Chorach, one of the younger Grolim says.    

“My fallen brother treated them as beasts,” You say. “Of all the tribes of Angarak, they were the lowliest and most downcast. And You were His butchers. There are many still alive who remember the horrors they lived through. It will take time for them to accept you as something other than walking nightmares.” 

“But you sent her?” Rutegar asks. 

“I sent myself,” Tsubai says. “Thull midwives have a most excellent talent, that the physicians and midwives of Gar og Nadrak would greatly benefit by.” 

“What talent?” Rutegar snorts. “They breed like pigs, their women are sows in--” Rutegar stops talking and his hands fly to his throat as he chokes. 

“Tsubai, no,” You say firmly. 

Tsubai unclenches her fist. “I hope the rest of you ‘missionaries’ didn’t think of the Thull you preached to as the Green Rank does,” she says in a grim tone. 

They had the typical opinions other Angaraks had for Thulls, but I wasn’t going tell Tsubai that. “Perhaps you could instruct them, on the way to Rak Urga?” You suggest. To the other Grolim you say, “all of you are under Tsubai’s authority. You’re to walk to Rak Urga, and report to the Hierarch there.” 

“Master,” Tsubai protests faintly. 

You smile at her. “Penance,” You tell her brightly. Tsubai makes a face at You, but bows in acknowledgement. You create tents and enough supplies for the journey, and sort of “encourage” them to actually obey Tsubai and the restrictions of their punishment. You didn’t want them to acquire horses, or accept rides or other assistance. They were going to walk, and Tsubai was going to shout at them. 

You mount Horse and journey back through the mountains toward the Vale of Aldur. You don’t stop to stay at the cottage or your brother’s tower on your way back. In the mountains just outside of Maragor, Your brother Mara contacts You with news of Signless. _“He’s healing well, and seems to be making friends with Taiba and Relg,”_ Mara tells You. 

_“Good,”_ You say. _“Let him know I’m returning, and tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t there to greet him when he awoke.”  
_

_“I will.”_ Mara says. He shows You images of Signless recovering, interacting with Relg and Taiba, their children, and the people of their village. Influenced as they are by Ulgo culture and customs, Relg and Taiba’s people are remarkably unafraid of Signless’ appearance. The Ulgo are unafraid of monsters, who they consider to be brothers, even though the monsters in turn have more or less forgotten UL in their madness, so Signless might be something of a wonder to them. A “monster” who isn’t mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about Thull: okay, so in the Belgariad/Mallorean story canon, Thull women stay constantly pregnant in order to avoid being chosen as sacrifices. They also have the largest “quota” of sacrifices, which is another reason they stay constantly pregnant, but never mind that. Other nations consider Thull to be bestial and inhuman and very stupid, which is agreed to by the Narrative. My strong feel, based in some headcanoning from [@violent-darts](https://violent-darts.tumblr.com/) is that Thull have really, really good midwives/medical practices given the survival rate of children and mothers. (For language reasons I’ve decided that Angarak nation/caste names are both singular/plural, though canon was generally attaching -s at the end.) 
> 
> Grolim tend to be power-hungry backstabbing little shits, even the ones who have converted, or “converted.” They are massively dysfunctional and Eriond is at His wit’s end with these idiots. Yes, even you, Grolim whose name I don't remember who was literally blinded by the Light. 
> 
> Tsubai is only Grolim because her mother was, more or less. She is actually half Nadrak, her mother having successfully ditched her family for a slightly less dysfunctional one after the death of Torak, when she married a Nadrak merchant. ~~Tsubai’s mom then gleefully killed her indignant and homicidal relatives who tried to murder her or her husband. her husband had the most awkward fear boner.~~
> 
> Writer reserves the right to maintain Canon’s irritating tendency toward “racial stereotypes are absolutely true genetic/phenotypical essentialism” where funny.
> 
> This chapter is largely an excuse to write Relg/Taiba domestic fluff. Because Relg/Taiba domestic fluff is pure and necessary.
> 
> Also, the Ulgo who leave the caves to hunt and gather food/resources are also the most ridiculous Steve Irwin naturalists. Ulgo in general love their monster upstairs neighbors like kids love dinosaurs. (Not seen in the Mallorean or Belgariad: Ulgo kids have stuffed Algroths and Eldrakyn toys, and little wooden and clay models of Hulgrin and dragon and unicorn. All the monsters okay. All of them.)


End file.
